


Careful, I Bite

by ladyofstardvst



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst if u squint, Far From Home spoilers, death implication, kinda depressing but also about healing!, nostalgic?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-06-27 02:52:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19781764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofstardvst/pseuds/ladyofstardvst
Summary: the beginning to one of those 'maybe life wont suck so much if we both stick together and eventually fall in love on accident' sort of things.





	1. Careful, I Bite

**Author's Note:**

> hey hi hello, so im pretending that Quentin really IS actually from the multiverse instead of some whiny dude hell bent on destroying Peter Parker from our Earth because hes an unstable asshole!!! so!!! there will be no heartbreak in that arena!!!!

_Per aspera ad astra. Through the thorns, to the stars._

You should have listened when people told you to be careful around smooth talkers.

The ones that possess striking silver tongues and resplendent charisma. Ones that kill every word on your tongue with a _look_ , and ones that always, _always_ know precisely how to act to earn your trust, steal your respect. Ones that know how to get close and _stay_ close, no matter who they are, what they’ve done, what they plan to _do_.

The kind with eyes that snare you during a hunt and devour your heart as it beats, your blood as it runs, your lungs as you breath.

The kind that that come flawlessly wrapped with a bow labeled _“_ _BE_ _CAREFUL, I BITE.”_

The kind that are flawless, too perfect to be true, yet you ignore the warning signs of a poisonous beast because you’ve been drowning in a world full of docile, careless currents instead of the raging, deadly torrent of waves in the middle of the sea.

You were bored, and tired of disappointment.

 _Maybe_ , you thought, _that was why you met Quentin Beck halfway._

That’s the thing about change. The thing about finding something decent after five years worth of shit: sometimes consequences didn’t seem to matter. That sort of logic is how you ended up on a Venetian terracotta rooftop next to the man from another Earth, from another life, on a night where you had a few hours to spare.

Dusk had fallen, leaving the city bathed in a soft lavender glow only broken by the lights of local nightlife coming alive around your little corner of the world. Stars had begun to blink into existence at the far reaches of the city limits, clinging tight to the safety of oncoming darkness. A perfect waxing crescent moon had begun to rise right in front of the two of you; it was as picturesque as any renaissance painting and you were about to lose your mind.

“This is -” your breath caught in your throat, voice quiet enough it was almost a whisper. “I’m not usually speechless, but this - _God_ there’s no words to describe how _beautiful_ this is.”

After all you had seen, all you had lived through – you weren’t sure you would ever see beauty so heartbreaking again.

“Have you been to Venice before?” Quentin asked, eyes cutting a path from the darkening sky to rest upon you, bathed in moonlight with eyes reflecting stardust and – _peace_.

You shrugged, glanced at him before turning back to the ancient city before you. He had his eyes on yours, and you were too content to risk ruining whatever sort of _moment_ this was turning out to be by meeting his gaze and saying something dumb.

“Once,” you answered, voice gaining volume as you spoke, “But it was . . . S.H.I.E.L.D. business. There wasn’t time to enjoy it, you know?”

He was quiet for a beat, then two; sounds of the neighborhood below masked the silence. He drew a breath, and you angled yourself towards him just a little bit more - it was always easier to look at someone while they were speaking. The excuses were endless.

“Yeah,” he sounded distant now, _haunted_. He turned back towards the rising moon. “I get it.”

You assumed he was thinking about his family, the way the silence grew heavy and thick with the danger of memories and theories and secrets.

You knew he was thinking of them when he began to fidget with the golden band on his left ring finger. Your own heart constricted at your own memories, your own loss, your own ache.

The chain around your neck seemed so heavy just then, the locket hanging down your chest seemed to burn red hot through your skin. You pulled it out from under your clothes, eyes sliding away from Quentin and back to the world around you.

So peaceful, so quiet.

You began to fidget with your own keepsake, your own reminder of a world that once was.

“With this sort of life,” you began slowly. Carefully. “You know it comes with hardships, with loss. But it always seems so distant - like the universe _just might_ decide to spare you from the consequences, from the pain. But it never does. Your turn comes sooner or later, and you always learn that the hard way.”

Your fingers wound around the chain, thumb caressed the raised design on the face of the locket.

Quentin turned to face you completely; you felt his eyes on you again.

You mirrored him this time, and your breath catches.

Not because he’s gorgeous (which he is).

Not because he’s extraordinary (which he is).

Not because he’s heroic and new and sympathetic (which he is).

But because, in that moment, you’re just two people who share similar pain, share similar experiences, a similar way of life. In that moment, you’re two people trying to do their best to right their wrongs, fix their mistakes. To prevent any more devastation, any more threats from harming you and yours, from harming those around you, and the innocents whose lives you’ve taken vows to protect.

In that moment, you’re both painfully _human_.

Quentin, caught in a rare moment without flashy armor and a flowing cape, but instead a t-shirt and jeans – with moonlight and city-light casting shadows on his tired face, features open and breathtaking and eyes brimming with understanding and relief that someone said out loud, what he dare not speak with his own voice.

For the first time since he came to this Earth, to _your_ Earth, he realized that maybe, _just maybe_ \- he could have a chance at another life. It would be similar to his old one, he imagined; with the saving and the fighting and the _trying_ – but if there were nights like this _one_ , moments when you had time to breathe, time to come back into yourself and heal . . . _well_.

As he watched you, for once, out of your own uniform and dressed simply in clothes of comfort, he saw his own vulnerability staring back at him through eyes wide and apologetic and a longing to move past the last five years of your life, move on from Thanos and all that happened before. Happened after. Was happening _now_. As he looked at you with comfort coursing through his veins, a sense of _belonging_ took hold of his heart and the breath was almost knocked out of his lungs.

It would take time, he knew, but staying here . . . it may not be so awful, as long as you were close by.

A warm breeze swept up off the canals running through the streets below, and you shivered from a chill. You didn’t think it was from the weather.

Nothing slipped past the man now known as Mysterio, because he stepped closer until you felt the warmth from his body sliding over you in waves with the wind.

“I’d like to hear about them; your story,” he said, eyes meeting yours with such _sincerity_ , your stomach threatened to burst into a million butterflies. You felt the warmth of his calloused hand slide into yours. “But only if you’ll let me.”

You glanced away for a second, intimidated by the thought of letting someone in again. Your lips quirked up anyway.

_BE CAREFUL, I BITE._

He always _knew_.

He always knew, just what to say.


	2. Secret Windows, Broken Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stars above, thorns below, suspended in reality. The past comes back to haunt, and you fight your way through death for the ending you deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twenty FFH rewatches and seven pumpkin spices later, I found the motivation to finish this. we made it yall. the first two part Thing i've done in like six years. enjoy!!

_D_ _um spiro spero._ _W_ _hile I breathe, I hope_

Broken arches, rusted beams, shards of glass.

Waves of saltwater crashed to the ground with a roar and a scream. Fireballs fell from the sky like an apocalyptic scene from an old sci-fi novel you read eons ago. Sidewalks buckled, lacerations in the cement appeared in the cracks that spider-webbed from the epicenter of the attack. Blood dripped on the street. Water tinged pink slid under your boots.

There was an unexplained, rare hybrid Elemental towering over everyone in the city of London – a scene which you were, of course, right in the middle of.

It was hard to see through the spray of waves, falling debris and blinding fire. Thick grey clouds had claimed dominion over the sky, locking the sun out of a good seat to what was hopefully, the final battle raging against the beings sliding through dimensions like an apparition slides through walls.

You were grateful when sunshine would burn it’s way through the blanket of slate grey for a few minutes to illuminate the doom before you; visibility increased by at least thirty percent.

When you were far enough away from the carnage, the display resembled a Renaissance painting. The work of Caravaggio met Claude Lorrain’s soft landscapes, severe chiaroscuro played into the safety of the sunlight and danger of the shadows. Color was distorted, and it _blinded you_ with the thought that _maybe_ , this would be beautiful if it wasn’t actually _happening_.

The brief art history reference tore itself from your thoughts when Quentin flew past you with green smoke that filled your vision and gifted you with the cover to find a fresh vantage point. If you stayed where you were any longer, a building would come down on you at any moment. The whole area was frightfully unstable, and you wished for the thousandth time that you could fly.

You moved to the next rooftop for your oncoming attack, leaping over the ledge as the tower behind you fell into ruin. You acted without a thought.

The new building began to sway, and so did you.

But there was no where to go.

All you had was the bitter, burnt-salt breeze to keep you upright, to keep you _safe_ , and you _knew- you knew better_ than to back yourself into a corner like this – but sometimes at the height of a fight you didn’t always think clearly. Didn’t always plan ahead far enough or plan for disaster like you used to do on command.

But _whatever it takes_ , right?

Stone began to shift and separate under your feet, and you recalled the only time you were unfortunate enough to experience an earthquake. You didn’t like the ground moving when it shouldn’t.

“If anyone could spare a minute to get me off this crumbling tower, I would be eternally grateful,” you said into the comms. You held your voice unwavering, strong. It cracked from disuse anyway. “I don’t have anywhere to _go_.”

A yell in the distance.

“I see you, hang on.”

Quentin, emerald trailing behind him that disappeared on contact with the Elemental.

Quentin, who came closer and closer towards you, helmet dissolving as the ground beneath you shuddered, buckled. You stumbled to the closest ledge, braced your feet on trembling masonry, hands ridding themselves of weapons to hang on to more crumbled brick and dust.

The structure began to fall away behind you, glass screeching all the way down as it shattered.

Your heart was about to burst. Adrenaline was all you had, in that moment, and there was no way to use it.

And then there was Q uentin, arms reach ed out as you took a calculated risk to climb on the ledge,  f ree arm instinctively  lunged out for him -

The stonework and mortar beneath you hitched, pitched forward.

You were inches away from the safety of Mysterio’s arms before your body was thrown forward and all you saw was distance.

The last thing you registered was Quentin. He was screaming.

–

The rooftops of Venice seemed so far away.

Memories came back in flashes and fragments, sounds and emotions. Feelings of fear and  of  pain and  of  hope  were drained from your falling, falling,  _falling_ body as it plummeted to the Earth below, away from the chaos above.

You woke with a jolt, then a flinch when your head screamed that it had probably split open. The bulk of bandages were heavy under your fingertips and a fresh wave of mind erasing pain slammed into you. Then some nausea.

This was probably what it felt like to be _guillotined_.

You cringed.

“ _Fuck_ -” you breathed, head on fire, body aching like no bones should _ever_ ache. Then, a face in front of yours and hands that gently guided your own away from the sorry fragile state of your skull.

“You’re going to be fine,” a voice said. It was disembodied, low and soothing, but _so close_ you had to search for it.

Quentin held your hands in your lap, expression closed carefully against anything that would make it easy for you to read what he thought. What he _wanted_ to say.

You knew he wouldn’t voice any of those things.

“I don’t feel _fine_ ,” you spit out, taking advantage of the lull in the fire that burned through your muscles, your bones, your brain. “Is that thing – is it gone?”

Quentin nod ded ,  glanced away from you. M ost of his face f ell into shadow; t he room  wa s dim,  a  desk lamp in the corner  on a low setting. “It’s gone. For good this time.”

H is voice was blissfully quiet,  blissfully  grounding.

“And Peter?”

“Safe. He should be halfway to New York by now, actually.”

Relieved, a breath rattled it’s way past your lips. “Maybe he can salvage his summer, if Fury will leave him _alone_ for that long. _God_ , what an asshole.”

The last part was muttered, more to yourself than Quentin.

“He’s a good kid. He deserves . . . a lot more than this life,” he answered. His eyebrows pulled together. Quentin avoided looking at you too much; you, battered and bruised. He blamed himself – that much he let you see.

You knew it wasn’t his fault.

Quentin pulled a hand free from yours, and you watched from the corner of your eye as it drifted to the side of your cheek, delicate when his fingers brushed up your cheekbone and lingered, lingered, _linger_ _ed_ -

He pulled away as quick as he approached.

“You should get some rest. It’s been a long day.”

Quentin was shutting the door to the dingy room before you realized he left your bedside.

There was an ache in your chest as you watched him go, and you knew that whatever had begun to blossom before today . . . you watched it wither and die in the span of seconds.

The ghost of his skin against yours could still be felt, the light trace of fingertips tracing your cheek squeezed your heart in a vice.

The ache in your chest thrummed in time to the ache behind your eyes.

–

Everything was different after London.

In the weeks that followed, you hardly glimpsed the new hero christened Mysterio, new Avenger.

Thoughts of yours often drifted back to the Elementals, underground outposts, safe-houses, and nights stolen on rooftops where the sunset felt different in every city. You wondered what would have happened if boundaries and memories and fear did not exist, if they hadn’t gotten in the way.

On the days you _did_ see one another, they were claimed days of stolen observations, strained smiles and walking on scorching coals via words and tones. A tensity bled into the air that was so sharp it could be cut with a _spoon_.

It was almost like Italy and Prague had never happened, that you hadn’t felt something _good_ blooming between your souls like the Earth coming alive after the harshness of winter’s lifeless embrace.

You called bullshit one night, a month or two later.

It was a Thursday evening, the soft violet sky peeked through the breaks in rose tinted clouds and glinted in glass high rises. From the cozy booth against the wall, you could see the air slowly becoming a light pink as it melted into the haze of the sky.

There was a book in front of you, a mass market paperback that had quite clearly been well read and well loved. Hairline cracks decorated the spine with a bent and smoothed cover, pages that were once upon a time white were now aging with a sort of vintage beauty. A steaming warm drink was next to the closed novel, glaze on the pottery beginning to chip at the bottom from constant use.

And, trying very hard not to outright blanch at your bold choice of words, Quentin Beck was _staring_ at you. Fingers tensed around his his own mug to raise it to his lips, but now they froze, grip tightened just a little too much to be casual.

You, tired of the little dance both of you had been partaking in since you almost died oversesas – were holding his gaze, unblinking, borderline _accusing_ , because, _well_. Let’s just say you preferred to talk about things instead of studiously pretending they were anything other than what they were.

More simply put: you didn’t do games. Life had become too short for that, much too quick.

“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to answer that,” Quentin managed, finally taking that drink.

You broke your stare, fingers curled over the tabletop edge, feeling the weight of this conversation all on your shoulders. There was an Atlas reference in there, _somewhere_ , you thought. Was it better to be the eagle or the Titan? You weren’t sure, and you weren’t sure which one you were about to become.

You huffed a breath. Shook your head.

“This,” you gestured across the table. “Things were . . . different before London. And I know you blame yourself -”

Quentin had denial written all over his face, (he wanted to say as much, _that_ was written all over his face.) But his eyes – his eyes gave him away. He was becoming tired of this as well, if he was lowering his mask inch by inch.

“-don’t you dare say you _don’t_ , because I’m not blind, Quentin, and I’m not stupid. I know what something like that can make you think, how it can make you _feel_. I _know_ , and it’s always _bullshit_.”

Silence settled between you for a moment. Then two, and then three.

Your name left his lips in a sigh. He made it sound like a precious gem, something sacred to be protected and admired and _cherished_. It made you lose focus – briefly – warmth spread through your body and skipped heartbeats hammered violently against your rib-cage.

He always knew what to say. _How_ to say things. And your name – _like that_ – was by any means, no exception.

_(BE CAREFUL, I BITE.)_

“If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine,” the words escaped your throat before they could be stopped, before you let him speak anything else. “I know not to take just any _out_ of a situation – I wasn’t thinking, and it almost got me killed. Almost got you _hurt_ , and, _clearly_ , did just a touch of emotional damage where we’re both concerned.”

You watched Quentin’s eyes drift back to yours, watched as his lips twisted into a small, unbelieving smile. “You really don’t dance around anything, do you?” he said, gaining back that rhythm of concrete confidence and sharp wit you’ve grown to adore.

A smile of your own matched his with a shake of your head. _No_ , you told him, _I never have_.

He invited you for a walk, and you accepted – almost a little too quickly – but was it just you or was it becoming a little too warm and a little too small inside?

Your name drifted through the pastel air, clear and crisp over the buzzing nightlife of New York City. Quentin Beck was looking at you and for a moment, you thought this city was Venice, and it was Venetian tile under your shoes instead of a concrete pathway in America that you’ve walked a thousand times before.

He took your hand and every single nerve in your body threatened to combust.

“I’m sorry,” he said, an introductory phrase that began tearing down his own walls, his safety nets, brick by brick and string by string. You told him your tale in Europe, and he thought it was time you heard all of his. The walk back to your apartment was filled with Quentin telling you about Earth 833. About his home, his Earth, his life. How he never met you on his home world, but how it felt like he still _knew_ you. One of those fluke connections cultivated with a stranger.

It gave him hope, he said, that maybe the future wouldn’t be so dark and demanding after all.

And then he watched you fall away from him, farther and farther, faster and _faster_ – how he saw the moment your body struck the devastation on the ground below and your eyes snapped closed immediately. The trickle of blood that threatened to stain his suit when he held you and tried to bring you back to consciousness. How he had to leave you a block away to destroy the Elemental before the Elemental destroyed the rest of the world.

He didn’t know if you would wake up.

He didn’t know if you would forgive him.

When you looked away from him, your front door was in front of you. Quentin had grown quiet.

Nothing you wanted to say seemed good enough, but the tears shining in your eyes seemed to say what they needed to. You knew that’s what he felt - but _hearing it_ was a whole other matter entirely.

“Can I kiss you?” Quentin asked, realizing words weren’t an option anymore. Your expression shifted, lightened with the implications of his question.

All you had to do was nod your consent and he was there, stealing the breath from your lungs while he pulled you closer and _you_ pulled him closer still. Electric air coalesced around you, time stopped and all that existed was that moment, the one that stole the world from your shoulders marking you as Atlas incarnate no more. This one moment with the moon hanging low in the sky above you - the sole witness to the devastatingly beautiful beginning to a story that would put Shakespearean sonnets to shame.

As slowly as it took to draw the next breath, there was now distance between you and Quentin Beck, but only enough to catch your breath before you stepped off the edge.

No guts, no glory, right?

“Do you . . . want to come inside?”

Quentin considered for half a moment, blue eyes ethereal and not once did they leave yours.

You should have listened when people told you to be careful around smooth talkers. The ones that possessed striking silver tongues and ones that knew how to get close and _stay_ close, no matter who they were, what they’ve done, what they planned to _do_. The kind with eyes that snared during a hunt and devoured your heart as it beat, your blood as it runs, your lungs as you breath. The kind that that came flawlessly wrapped with a bow labeled, __BE CAREFUL, I BITE.__

“I’ll follow you anywhere, honey.”

You believed him.


End file.
